Recapturing Youth
by Patina106
Summary: Napoleon and Mr. Waverly are pinned down during a firefight.


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and haven't made any money from this story.

Recapturing Youth

by Patina106

"Sir! Stay down!" ordered Napoleon Solo as he ducked at incoming fire.

"I'm still able to put up a good fight, you know," replied Alexander Waverly. "I was once a highly capable field agent."

Both men tucked their chins down and pressed their backs against the barrier. The loud blasts of impact only served as a reminder that they were sitting ducks.

Napoleon popped up and let loose a volley of his own in hopes that he was reminding their attackers that he wasn't going to give up.

"There's no escape!" a voice yelled across the make-shift battlefield. "Give up now and no harm will come to you!"

"Never!" yelled Mr. Waverly. His Chief Enforcement Agent looked at him with momentary surprise before firing again.

"We're running low on ammunition, Sir."

"I can see that!" snapped Waverly. "You should be more sparing, Mr. Solo. In my day, we never presumed there'd be a rescue so we made every shot count."

If he'd been with anyone but his boss, Napoleon would have snapped off a sarcastic remark.

Both men tried to relax for a few moments and assess their predicament. Their make-shift barrier couldn't last much longer against the enemy's onslaught.

"One of us should make an attempt at an ambush," said Waverly.

Napoleon glanced around and his sharp eyes took in their surroundings. There were a few trees that might provide decent cover, but there was no possibility of sneaking up on their assailants. Too much time would have to be spent in the open and as a clear target. "You're not as young as you used to be, Sir. You'd never make it."

Mr. Waverly harrumphed in response. "That's the arrogance of youth speaking, Mr. Solo. You young people assume those of us with some mileage on us can't do more than hobble around on a cane."

The younger man's jaw dropped in surprise. "That's not true, Sir. I'm just being practical. Besides, unlike you, I'm expendable."

To prove his point, Waverly popped up and fired at the attacker. Solo quickly pulled his boss down to safety.

"Don't give them a clear target, Sir!"

"They'd probably miss anyway."

Napoleon frowned and raised an eyebrow in response. Ironic that most of his fellow agents thought of him as arrogant.

"Come out with your hands up!"

"_You_ come out with _your_ hands up and we'll discuss _your_ surrender," shot back Napoleon.

"We know you're running low on ammunition!"

Alexander Waverly let loose a loud sigh of frustration. "We'd be in a better position if you hadn't been so hasty in your assessment of the terrain. You young people don't take the time to think things through."

"We didn't have much choice, Sir."

"That's as may be but you could have been more observant." The older man gestured to his right. "Take those trees over there; we could have made a better stand from that position."

"Are you saying you think we should move?"

"We've got nothing to lose."

Napoleon checked their arsenal as he replied, "We've got quite a lot to lose, Sir—mainly my reputation."

Waverly allowed a chuckle at that. "Well, at least we'll have gone down trying."

The loud thwacks against the barrier provided a reason for an attempt at moving to better ground.

After a final munitions check, Napoleon announced his plan. "You get ready to run to those trees, Sir. On the count of three, I'll start covering fire to provide a distraction and give you a chance; then I'll follow. Do you think you can make it?"

The only answer was a loud harrumph, which Napoleon took to mean yes.

Waverly moved to his knees and then braced one foot to prepare to move as fast as he was able. His younger agents would probably be surprised to know that he held the record for the 100-meter dash in his youth.

Napoleon began his countdown, using only his fingers so the enemy wouldn't have forewarning. On three, he popped up and began firing.

Mr. Waverly lurched to his feet and began to move as fast as his feet would carry him. A victorious yell at seeing the head of U.N.C.L.E. New York out in the open only made the man move faster.

Seeing his boss exposed to enemy fire made Napoleon realize how foolish this plan was. He saw one of the attackers prepare to take down the prize and he launched himself from the protective shelter of the barrier. Knowing that he had to do whatever was within his power to save Mr. Waverly from falling into enemy hands, Napoleon leapt into the line of fire and took a direct hit to the chest. The loud splat of impact was a triumph to enemy ears as his body connected with the ground. The next shot caught Waverly in the arm yet he managed to keep going.

"No fair! You got hit! You're supposed to die!"

Mr. Waverly made it to the trees and yelled back, "I changed the rules!" He saw Napoleon sitting up and said, "The rules still apply to you, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon rolled onto his side and propped his cheek up on his fist as his elbow found solid ground beneath the snow.

"Yes, Napoleon, I agree with Mr. Waverly. The rules still apply to you." Illya knew his smirk was just adding insult to injured pride.

Napoleon tossed a handful of snow in his partner's direction as Melvin Waverly approached with a large snowball in his gloved hand. "Be careful with that. You could hurt someone."

Seven year old Melvin giggled with anticipation as he pulled back his arm to let Napoleon have it.

The backdoor opened and Mrs. Waverly, clad in a floral-print apron to keep her dress free of gravy stains, said, "Melvin! Put that down! Alexander! Bring those boys in out of the cold before you catch your deaths!"

"We're just having a bit of fun," answered Mr. Waverly, sounding more akin to a school-boy caught with a slingshot near a window than the head of a law enforcement agency.

Mrs. Waverly shook the wooden spoon in her hand and said, "Dinner will be on the table soon so come in and wash up." She retreated back into the warmth of the kitchen, muttering about boys being boys, no matter their age.

Illya's stomach growled loudly at the aroma of roast turkey lingering in the air. He extended a hand to his partner.

Napoleon brushed the snow from his wool coat as Mr. Waverly left the safety of his tree. "How about a rematch after dinner?" Solo asked.

Melvin and Illya looked at each other and traded smiles before the boy said, "You're on!"

Mr. Waverly ruffled his grandson's hair and said, "I'll take Melvin and we'll see how my best agents do against two Waverlys."

Illya and Napoleon exchanged a look of surprise—their boss was eager for another snowball fight and planned to gain the advantage with his grandson's knowledge of Illya's battle tactics.

"Sir? That's not exactly fair. Melvin knows all of Illya's dirty tricks."

"A good agent collects intelligence before blindly attacking, Mr. Solo. Surely you remember that lesson from your schooling." His sly smile only served to remind his agents that, despite his age, he still had some tricks up his sleeve. "Come along, Melvin. We don't want to keep your grandmother waiting. If the potatoes sit too long, they're likely to be lumpy." He placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder and steered him to the door.

"Don't worry, Napoleon, I didn't teach the boy everything."

Napoleon's face lit up as he noted Illya's wily grin. "Sneaky Russian."

The End

November 2009


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